


Long Live The King

by Laurelin (Lintelomiel)



Series: Pilgrim [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Last Alliance, M/M, Second Age, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lintelomiel/pseuds/Laurelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oropher, Elvenking of the Greenwood, is mortally wounded during the War of the Last Alliance. All hope now rests on the shoulders of his son. Can Thranduil rise to the occasion and be the leader his men desperately need?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> According to Tolkien’s own accounts, Oropher died during the Last Alliance' very first assault on Mordor, but I changed the facts slightly to suit my needs. When the story begins, the war has been going on for a number of years.

_I feel the spring far off, far off,_   
_The faint, far scent of bud and leaf_   
_Oh, how can spring take heart to come_   
_To a world in grief,_   
_Deep grief?_   
  
_The sun turns north, the days grow long,_   
_Later the evening star grows bright—_   
_How can the daylight linger on_   
_For men to fight,_   
_Still fight?_

~Sara Teasdale, 'Spring in War-Time'

***

“Blast!”

Thranduil cast the tunic he had been trying to mend aside impatiently. He was still no better at this than he had been on the day this accursed war began, and his clumsy fingers had accidentally torn the fabric, which had become thin and worn by time. He might as well wipe his arse with it, now, because as a garment it was completely useless. Damn this misfortune, and damn this pointless war!

His mutters of aggravation must have reached beyond the thin walls of his tent, because the front flap was pulled aside and Torovir, one of his personal tenders, entered. “My prince, is everything all right?”

“Just peachy,” Thranduil replied, making no attempt to hide his acerbic mood. “Another tunic ruined, so it appears I’ll have to do battle completely naked soon, but no matter. Naked or not, death will find us all in the end.”

Torovir, who had learned not to fuel Thranduil’s ire in moments like these, picked up the rent tunic and examined it. “The damage might not be irreparable. I will give it to the fitters-- they may be able to save it.”

Thranduil got up from his bunk and went to the table in the middle of the tent. On top of it was a bowl of tepid water – more valuable than mithril in the midst of Mordor’s summer – and in that water floated a piece of cloth. He took it, wrung it out carefully so as not to spill a single drop and used it to dab his face and neck. “Has my father returned?”

“I don’t think so, my prince. I have not seen him in camp for several hours.”

Thranduil swatted half-heartedly at a bothersome fly that had found its way into the tent. His father had left that morning to parley with the other generals, leaving Thranduil in charge of the encampment. For years, it had been like this. On some days, there was battle. On others, there was nothing to be done except the various chores around the encampment and to while the time away waiting, sleeping, masturbating and pining for things that had been beyond reach for years.

Thranduil did in fact prefer the days of battle over the others.

“Does my prince have need of me yet?”

Thranduil turned around to look into Torovir’s eyes. They were warm, inviting. “Are you offering?”

Torovir nodded and came closer. “You need but ask.”

At Thranduil’s signal, the elf dropped his breeches and bent forward over the surface of the table, and while Thranduil prepared himself, he experienced a moment of fleeting disgust at the baseness of these encounters and the role he himself played in bringing them about. He did not truly desire this young soldier, not in any meaningful way, desire being an emotion that had long since been dulled and snuffed out by the dreary routine of war on these barren plains. But it offered a moment’s respite, at least, an escape from the hopelessness and the certainty that the forces of good were fighting a lost battle, and that it was only a matter of time before the last son of the Greenwood perished in the shadow of Mount Doom.

Thranduil wondered who Torovir thought of during these moments of perfunctory ecstasy, but dared not ask. His own thoughts were almost exclusively of his lady, whose name had not left his lips these many years. The illusion was fragile, though, because his fellow soldiers – eager to please though they might be – could not offer him the scent of her skin, nor the softness of her body, nor the welcoming, pliant heat of her sex. Thranduil kept his thoughts focused on that as he increased the pace of his thrusting, imagining himself to be a thousand miles away, until he pulled back to stroke himself to completion while Torovir did likewise.

It was efficient, it was uncomplicated-- it was even vaguely pleasant. But in the end, it was just another way to pass the time, no more meaningful than scratching an itch or picking one’s teeth. As much as Thranduil resented this war, he hated even more what it had forced him to become, and truth be told, all he wanted was for things to be over, one way or the other.

After Torovir had left – with the rent tunic – Thranduil lay down on his bunk bed and closed his eyes, hoping for a few moments of sleep. Not because he was tired, but because it would give his mind a brief respite. There was far too much time to think here, and his thoughts were bad company these days; sleep was, besides sex, the only thing that could keep them at bay for a little while.

He would probably die in this place. He’d had some time to acquaint himself with the idea, and as sad a thought as it was, there was some reassurance to be found in it as well. Anything, even death, was preferable to the Valar knew how many years in this no man’s land, where the memory of trees, flowers and birds was replaced by the taste of ash and the smell of sulphur. Many of his fellow soldiers had already perished; those that hadn’t, had become numb and indifferent to death. It was a dangerous development-- an army that doesn’t fear death, but doesn’t believe in victory either, such an army is headed for certain catastrophe.

Such bold words Oropher had spoken in the early days of this war. Brimming with confidence, he had rallied the troops to him declaring that defeating the Enemy would take mere weeks, a few months at most. And the sheer magnitude of the combined host of Elves and Men had indeed justified such a statement. But the Enemy was cunning, and his forces appeared to be multiplying like rats in a warehouse. And so, the months had turned into years, and every morning Thranduil woke up surprised that he lived to see another day. Frankly, he had not expected to last a single week out here. Not because he was a deficient fighter – on the contrary, he knew that he was a combatant worthy of the Greenwood crest – but because it seemed likely that Mordor would crush his spirit before long. He still drew breath, he even had some will to fight left in him yet, so he must be stronger than he had given himself credit for, but he did not indulge in idle hope; the poison of war had contaminated his blood, and one day it would fell him, if an orc blade or arrow did not find him first.

When a single clarion call announced the return of the king to the encampment, Thranduil heaved himself from his bunk and wandered outside, unable to suppress a smile as he saw his father entering camp at a brisk stride, looking like a disgruntled war general who had misplaced his horse. Unfortunately, all of their horses had long since perished, run away or been stolen.

"Thranduil." Oropher acknowledged his son with a curt nod. "Why are you bare-chested? It is not appropriate for you to appear thus outside your tent. What were you thinking?”

Thranduil barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "No one cares about such trivial things, Father.”

Oropher snorted and turned his head, showing the square jaw that spoke of an inflexible character. “You are not a common foot soldier, Thranduil. You are in charge of the encampment during my absence and you are expected to act accordingly.”

Thranduil slowly counted to ten before responding. “How was the meeting?”

“Dismal. The old man and the Noldo are planning another siege on the Morannon, as if this time the Black Gates will crumble at their knocking. It is pure folly, but no matter. Amdír and I have other plans.”

“Plans?” Frowning suspiciously, Thranduil followed Oropher into his tent. “I do not like the sound of that, Father. If you are planning to go rogue, I urge you to reconsider.”

Oropher made a disparaging sound. “You would sooner follow that Noldo to certain destruction than trust your King and sire?”

“Destruction is by no means certain,” Thranduil said with trained patience. Conversations with his father were always such draining affairs! “Gil-galad is no friend to me, but I cannot fault his leadership or his strategic insight. I respect him.”

“You’re a fool then,” Oropher said harshly. “The Noldor look only after their own interests; we should do the same. And in any case, you do not fight under Gil-galad’s banner and you do not owe him your allegiance.” He drew closer until father and son were almost chest to chest. “You will carry out whatever orders I give you, be it in battle or otherwise. Is that clear?”

Thranduil stood his ground, gnashing his teeth. “Have I not given you my unswerving loyalty these many years? But I am not your puppet, and my loyalty does not extend to blind obedience. If you and Amdír are planning some reckless move, I should know about it.”

“There is nothing to tell… yet.” Oropher turned away. “Tomorrow you will take a cohort of our finest swordsmen and explore the northern boundaries. There must be some sort of hidden passage into Mordor we’ve overlooked.”

“Father, we’ve tried for years to find such a passage.”

“Then try again, and harder!” With a curt gesture, Oropher summoned him out. “Go select the men you wish to take tomorrow; no less than fifty, no more than a hundred. And for goodness’ sake, put a damn shirt on.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dusk was falling as Thranduil led his battered cohort back to the encampment after a long day of battle. All were grimy and tired, but what little relief Thranduil felt at seeing the makeshift village of canvas tents soon fled. The atmosphere in camp was that of an army in mourning, for the King had been mortally wounded in combat some hours before. Heledir, the King's most loyal general, had been witness to the event and looked uncharacteristically shaken as he delivered the tragic tidings that were about to change Thranduil’s life forever.

"He clings to life, my prince, and shall not see the morning. Please, come with me. He has asked for you many times."

The men looked at Thranduil gravely as he strode through camp on Heledir's tail. Their army had suffered heavy losses since the battle began, but the imminent loss of their commander-in-chief, with the victory still nowhere in sight, was a blow from which it would be hard to recover. In that moment of fear and grief, the thought of the monumental task ahead was almost too much for Thranduil to bear.

"Heledir," he said suddenly when they reached the tent in which Oropher lay, and he grasped the general's shoulder for some much-needed support. "I am not prepared for this. I cannot face him alone. Please, come inside with me.”

He felt a coward, but Heledir merely bowed his head in acknowledgment of the request. "If my prince wishes it, then I shall."

Together they entered Oropher's tent, scarcely lit by a single lamp. What struck Thranduil immediately was that there were no healers present at the King's bedside, and his final shred of hope fled at that. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him and he had to clear his throat to make himself audible. "Father?"

Oropher's eyes cracked open, turning toward him. He appeared weak, strengthless- it made him look a stranger. "Thranduil, at last. Sit down, I must speak with you. There isn't much time."

"Don't say that." Thranduil lowered himself unsteadily onto the only available chair. "Where are the healers? Why have they abandoned you?"

"They did what they could, ion. They would have done more still, but their efforts were in vain so I told them to leave. My wounds are grave and many, my body is bleeding on the inside. I already have the taste of death on my tongue."

Thranduil shook his head in stubborn denial, blinking as tears rose in his eyes. "No, Father. I beg you..."

"Do not weep for me," Oropher said sharply. Even in his dying hours, his eyes were like steel. "A King of the Greenwood cannot be seen weeping. Remember that!"

Thranduil took pause, struggling to obey. "Please, don't say these things."

"It is the truth." Oropher's expression softened somewhat. "You will be the King now, Thranduil. The men will look to you to lead them in this blasted war, and you cannot disappoint them. We have lost so many already... You must do better than I."

"Father, I am not ready."

"You must be!" Oropher's eyes shot fire. "You must be because you have no choice. There is no one else. You are my son, and you have been prepared for this all your life. The men will follow you without question. End this war and bring them home, as I wish I could have done. The crown is now yours by right."

The King paused, turning away to spit blood into a bowl the healers may have left for that purpose.

"Tell me," he went on, more calmly, "do you intend to marry that lovely elleth of yours?"

Thranduil bowed his head, trying to push away the image that rose before his mind's eye-- the face of his chosen one, the memory of her soft body. His father had asked him that question so many times before, and today, for the first time, Thranduil allowed himself to answer truthfully. "Yes," he said quietly, "I love her."

"Good." Oropher appeared satisfied. "A King should be wedded and have children. You must beget a son, Thranduil. Our line must continue. Have a son, in whom will be combined the best of both of you."

Thranduil finally lost the fight with his emotions. "If... if the Valar wish it, Father."

Oropher was silent for a while, watching his grief-stricken heir with a rare look of compassion in his eyes. "I know you are frightened," he said softly, "but you cannot let those soldiers out there know that, son. They have a long fight ahead of them and they need you to be strong, as I know you can. I know that I am flawed as a father, but as your King I have tried to set the best example I could."

"You have," Thranduil said hoarsely. "You have, and I will not forget it."

"There, now." Oropher touched his son's head briefly. "You have fought bravely all this time, making me proud to call you son. I know that you have a deep love for the Greenwood, and that you will do right by our people. I die peacefully, leaving them in your care." He reached for the signet ring he wore on his middle finger and began taking it off, which proved difficult because his hands were swollen. "Hold out your hand, Thranduil."

Thranduil did as he was asked, watching the King struggle to complete the simple task of taking off the ring and transferring it to the hand of its new owner.

"Our family crest," Oropher said. "Wear it with pride, ion, as I have done all my life. Friend and foe will see it and know who you are."

The ring felt strange and unfamiliar on Thranduil's finger. "Yes, Father."

Oropher lay back into the pillow, a deathly pallor already on his face. "If you do return home," he said quietly, "I hope you will think on your adar with more kindness than I probably deserve. I know I wasn't the affectionate father you might have wished for. I hope that one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive me for that." He closed his eyes, breathing audibly in and out. "Tell your mother that I am sorry."

Soon after that, the King stopped drawing breath, and his hand went slack in Thranduil's.

"Father... Ada... no, don't leave me." Thranduil lowered his head and wept, freely now, against his father's chest. "Don't leave me here all alone."

"Not alone." Heledir, who had all but made himself invisible, came forward and leaned over Oropher's death bed, bestowing a reverent kiss upon the monarch's brow. Then he knelt before Thranduil, kissing his ring before looking up at Oropher's son with trusting eyes. Softly and solemnly, he spoke but four words.

"Long live the King."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have nothing against Gil-galad, Elrond or the Noldor in general. I just like to write about Thranduil being awesome. :)

Thranduil entered the Noldorin encampment under the cover of darkness, incognito and accompanied only by Heledir, who had come to provide moral support rather than protection. After bandying a few words with the guards, they were allowed to pass, their disguises allowing them to make quick progress past the numerous campfires until they reached the large tent at the centre of the encampment-- the one with the High King’s standard on top. There was no wind tonight, and the banner hung down droopily from its pole, seemingly in an uncanny imitation of Thranduil’s state of mind. 

Gil-galad was not alone; his herald and second shadow, Elrond Half-elven, was there also. The two companions were seated and drinking wine; how in Eru’s name had they come by it? Thranduil hadn’t experienced the taste of wine on his tongue in years, and his mouth had long since forgotten the taste of fresh fruit, just as his hands had forgotten the softness of a woman’s skin. Those simple pleasures, it seemed, were now forever lost to him.

Gil-galad started to rise from his chair in alarm, but relaxed when Thranduil threw the hood of his dark cloak back. “Thranduil, I wasn’t expecting you. What business brings you to my tent at this hour?”

“I come to strike a deal.” Unmoved by Gil-galad’s jovial tone, Thranduil kept his tone level, not allowing his face to show emotion. That at least was something he had learned from his father-- _be firm, walk tall, bow to no one. Show no hesitation. Pretend your backbone is of solid steel. Keep your cards close to your chest, and never, ever ask for a favour._

“Indeed?” Gil-galad raised an eyebrow. “Well then, by all means, sit and join us in raising a glass to the good outcome. It is from our last barrel, so it is high time we end this war.”

“We’ll take water, thank you.” Thranduil sat down, gesturing that Heledir do the same. “We are in mourning-- as you may know, we buried my father this day.”

“I heard.” Gil-galad seemed to hesitate, and he exchanged glances with Elrond. “My condolences.”

“A terrible loss, one that is hard to accept.” Elrond nodded at Thranduil, and in his eyes there was genuine sympathy. “I grieve with you, Thranduil. If there is anything we can do to lessen the pain…”

“Those are hollow words, Elrond, unless you are prepared to act on them.” Thranduil paused for effect. “I want armours, as many as you can get me. Only the best quality will suffice.”

Gil-galad narrowed his eyes. “Armours?”

“You had years to prepare for this war.” Thranduil met the High King’s gaze without flinching. “We had mere days, yet we answered your call and followed you, because we believed in the cause. But our armour is poor, inferior to yours; it is too easily pierced by enemy arrows. For years now, my kinsmen have been dying by the dozens, needlessly. You and I both know that this war will not be decided tomorrow; it will rage for years to come. Even if Sauron is defeated in the end, there will be no sons of the Greenwood left to see it. I would like that water now.”

Gil-galad gave a curt nod at Elrond, who got up to pour water for the visitors. “Speak plainly, Oropherion. Are you asking that our smiths make armours for _your_ army?”

“That would be one of the options,” Thranduil said calmly. “However that wouldn’t satisfy our immediate need, so alternatives must be considered. There have been casualties on your side as well; in death, the Noldor have just as little need of their armour as anyone else.”

“What?” Gil-galad leaned slightly forward, his blue eyes growing colder. “You covet the armours of our fallen comrades? You would stoop that low?”

“It is a warrior’s given right to be buried in his suit of armour,” Elrond said. “Surely, Thranduil, you are not suggesting that we open the graves of our kinsmen and strip them of their cuirasses and shields. You have more respect than that.”

“Show me the gravesite and I’ll do it right now, with my bare hands if I have to.” Thranduil looked into the shocked faces before him. Even Heledir looked unsettled, but Thranduil had not come here for a neighbourly chat. He had to establish his authority right off the bat, prove that he was a worthy successor to his father’s throne. It was his duty to give his people a voice, and to make sure that voice was heard.

“Why, you disrespectful little…” Gil-galad got up brusquely. He was a large and imposing figure, especially in anger. “Out. Get out of my sight, now! You are just as mad as your father. An utter fool he was, too.”

Thranduil remained seated, drawing on his last reserves to stay calm. “Before he died, I promised my father I would bring home as many of our soldiers as I could. I intend to keep that promise one way or the other. So, either you give me what I need or I take my remaining warriors with me, down to the last man. I will give the command to break up camp tonight, and come the dawn, you will find us gone.” 

“You would abandon duty and order your men to do the same?” Gil-galad laughed derisively. “What honour is there in that?”

“What honour is there in dying?” Thranduil countered. “So many fathers, sons, brothers lie dead here, never to return home, and for what? How many men will not live to see the sunset tomorrow? How many of those could you, Ereinion Gil-galad, spare with your mercy and a little generosity? If that thought doesn’t gnaw at you tonight, then you’re not worth dying for.” He rose to his feet. “Good night, Elrond. Come, Heledir. We are done.”

Thranduil exited the tent at a brisk stride, Heledir following close behind. Away towards the east, the mountain was issuing a plume of smoke and steam, and the smell of rotten eggs was overwhelming tonight. Still, it was to be preferred over the frequent eruptions of lava and burning rocks that had claimed numerous lives - on both sides - these past few years. Despite the warm night, Thranduil drew his cloak a little closer about him and hastened his step.

_There are only two types of kings-- those that get things done… and those that don’t._

“Wait!”

Thranduil halted, not knowing what to hope for as he turned around to face Elrond, who made no haste approaching him. He was alone, but there was no doubt that he had been sent to relay a message from Gil-galad, and that message would determine everything.

_What sort of king do you want to be, Thranduil?_

“The King does not appreciate being blackmailed,” Elrond said, “but he is understanding of your grief and of your plight. He would regret losing you as an ally, for the Greenwood host, however small, has been a valuable asset in this war. You will have your armours, but we need time. You will observe a mourning period for your father, I assume?”

Thranduil nodded tersely. “Ten days, in wartime.”

“So be it. Your troops will be exempt from fighting in that time, and we will find a way to arm them with Noldorin steel.” Elrond held out his hand. “What say you?”

“Only the best materials,” Thranduil said. “If I am not satisfied, I _will_ take my men home to their families, whether it is honourable or not.”

“Understood.”

Thranduil waited still, holding Elrond’s gaze a good long while before he grasped his hand and shook it.

“You drive a hard bargain, Thranduil, son of Oropher,” Elrond said. “If your goal was to set the tone for our future dealings, you have certainly succeeded.”

“My goal is to protect my people’s interests, nothing more,” Thranduil said impassively.

Elrond placed his free hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. “I truly am sorry for your loss. Fate has given you no small burden to bear, Thranduil. I hope you find the strength to be your own man, even as king. Wear the crown-- don’t let it wear you.”

With that, Elrond turned and went back to the King’s tent. Thranduil waited until he had gone inside; then he closed his eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths, pressing his fist to his mouth. His hand was trembling, and he wondered if Elrond had felt that, too.

“That was well done, my Lord,” Heledir said. There was admiration in his voice. “Your father would be proud.”

Thranduil shook his head. “No, he would not. I threatened to break his word of honour, to leave in the middle of war. He would turn around in his grave if he knew.”

“But it was an impressive display of bluff, and it worked!”

Thranduil sighed and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head once more. His blond hair stood out in the Noldorin encampment, and if there was any way to blend in with the darkness completely, he surely would have done so. He gave Heledir a sad look before turning away.

“Who said that it was bluff?”


End file.
